Food stories are important in for understanding the Kingdom of God. Tim Spector’s (2020) book has shown us that most of what we know about diets is based on an ‘average’ person, and this social-scientific construction of the average is invariably a white, middle-class, middle-aged male. Notions of ideal fat, sugar, fibre, alcohol and calorie intake make assumptions based on a handful of models, that invariably ignore specifics of age, class, gender and ethnicity.

As Caroline Criado Perez (2019) noted, the very idea of ‘average’ suggests more than a statistical ‘norm’, which is inherently divisive, as some will be above, and some below. And many other kinds of ‘average’ will in turn, be based on an ideal ‘normal’, which makes those who don’t fit that mould abnormal. 

That is why Jesus’ teaching on growth and mission is so careful, if not mindful. Some seeds work in one kind of soil, but don’t necessarily fare well in every kind of ground. To some are given grounds to toil in, in terms of mission, that are stony, hard, and unyielding. To others, the ground is soft and fertile, and to others, the competition of weeds and the hunger of the birds means that all growth is quickly snatched away. Jesus’ teaching on the ecology of the Kingdom of God was always an invitation to take part in levelling off the ground around us, and to take collective responsibility for those who have less, or perhaps nothing. God’s provision is for sharing out with others, not hoarding to ourselves. 

Our language for food is inherently politicized. ‘Food Banks’ are perhaps our best example. They do exceptional work, for sure – and have become a staple necessity in harsh and unforgiving economic times. Yet the word ‘bank’ borrows from the world of monetarism, and indeed, that very monetarism might be said to be partly responsible for the existence of food banks. Banks ‘lend’, but they do not give. So how do we talk about money, the love of which is one root cause of another person’s poverty? Our language for that shapes our thinking about money is so ancient and ingrained, we rarely think about it. How did we ever come to talk about ‘owning shares’, when sharing is not about ownership? 

Money-talk is elemental, and if one, for example, follows the ancient assumption regarding the four elements that comprised the world, these are still metaphors we live by: earth, air, fire, and water. Earth-metaphors give us words like bank, deposit, foundation, and grounding. Air-metaphors offer oxygen and lungs (in the economy), headroom and room to breathe in budgets; and like air, money is everywhere. Fire-metaphors give us consumption, overheated (economy), inflation, fire-sale; and even today people speak of ‘burning through money’. Water-metaphors give us assets that are frozen or liquidated; our confidence in an economy can suddenly evaporate; excessive money leaves some people awash in cash, while others drown in debt. 

This makes a ‘Food Bank’ a rather ambivalent term. Those for whom money is secure will find the idea of a bank reassuring. It keeps money and investments secure, and manages what you have, and may even pay interest. For those in debt however, banks can be places of pain, regret and remorse, summoning memories of repossession, unaffordable loans, and the stigma of losing control of one’s finances. Food-aid and bank become intertwined, adding guilt to any stigma already there. Terms like ‘larder’, ‘hub’, ‘store’ and ‘pantry’ would convey something quite different to those in need, and to those donating or supporting.

So, if the church is to become fresh and new, and return to being the revitalized body it aches to be, where do we begin? Here, we need to courage to turn the church inside out and let it be turned upside down. Yes, it will shake us, and we must begin with ourselves. Yet it is in the adventure of following Jesus that we trust we learn to start with nothing but ourselves: no props, targets, goals, grand plans, well-intentioned ideas, or anything of the like. 

Begin with God. The fourteenth-century Sufi-Persian poet, Hafiz, in his short poem ‘Zero’ opines that ‘zero is where the real fun starts…there’s too much counting everywhere else’.